A science fiction story about genetic modification by David Tombale: Strays

Strays

Dogs may never disobey the masters; that is the first law. Smasher remembered when they’d taught it to him after he’d endured the gene splicing procedure; it hadn’t seemed like such a hard rule to follow at the time. Dashing across the street while avoiding the yellow pools of light created by the cast iron streetlights he remembered a time when everything seemed so much simpler. He leapt at the wall using his enhanced strength to get one sneaker on it then somersaulted over the electric fence and onto the grounds.

Smasher landed noisily in the mud around the wall but was up and moving before the nearest dog warrior could respond. He ran at full speed over the wet lawn, the water soaking his jean legs to the ankle. He made it onto the stairs fronting the pool before he encountered the first guard. The dog warrior only had time enough to turn his yellow eyes on a dark blur that struck him on the side of the head before losing consciousness.

Smasher grabbed the dog warrior before he could make a sound, wrinkling his nose at his pungent scent and dragged him some distance until he could find a store room to toss him in. He got a handhold on a pipe connected to the rain gutters and climbed up the walls until he reached the roof. After that he padded silently over the tiles until he found the right balcony. He dropped down onto it hearing soft moans coming from inside.

Smasher pulled a gun from his jeans’ waistband and screwed on a silencer he took from his pocket. As quietly as possible he slid the balcony doors open and walked through pushing aside the thin white curtains that hid the interior room. Smasher raised his gun taking in the sight of the woman weakly trying to crawl across the carpet with a man standing shirtless above her a bloody whip in his hands.

The man in front of Smasher had been on the cover of Time magazine three times and was one of the most recognizable figures in the whole country. He was a man Smasher had learnt to see for the monster he was and looking at him now with his face crazed and drool dripping from his lips he wondered if his beloved constituents could accept this hidden side of Senator Cal Rodham.

Cal turned when a breeze that blew past the open balcony doors brushed across his naked chest. His eyes widened when he saw Smasher, his mouth working to form the words to deny the phantom that stood fearlessly in his room.

‘You…’ Cal finally managed to say.

Smasher considered all the things he’d imagined he’d say to this man, the years he’d spent relearning to walk and talk and function. He touched a finger to the long scar that ran over his missing eye and realized that no words would ever change what had happened. The price he’d already paid for getting in this man’s way, for trying to prevent the torture of a warrior he’d respected had been high. Cal had had him beaten to within an inch of his life and Roper had still died anyway.

‘What are you planning to do with that gun you dumb mutt?’ Cal asked regaining his composure.

He knew the law as well as Smasher; no dog could ever disobey their master. ‘Go on, put it down dog. Right now.’

Smasher regarded his old master and then glanced down at the woman on the carpet, her black hair falling over her sweat soaked brow, and bloody wounds crisscrossing her back. Smasher lifted his head, his vision narrowing to a spot right between Cal’s ribs and pulled the trigger. The gun spat out two bullets that spun the Cal around and dropped him to the floor where he lay still and quite dead.

‘I have no masters,’ Smasher said to the room.

He knew he should leave but then he saw the tears sparkling in the woman’s eyes. Smasher put away his gun and reached down, picking the woman up in his arms. Walking out on the balcony he could see dark clouds converging around the white crescent moon and took it as a good omen.

‘You’re going to have to be quiet if I’m going to get us out of here,’ he told the woman.

Her back was on fire but she stuck her hand in her mouth to stifle any further cries of pain.

A dog may never disobey its master but not every dog has a master to call his own, we call such dogs strays.

A short story about class warfare by David Tombale: The Rooters

The Rooters

Leo could see the tears welling in the boy’s eyes even at a distance and felt the rage build inside him. Here was another weed that needed plucking and with all eyes on the athletic trials he couldn’t believe the boy wasn’t at least trying to hide his unseemly display. Leo tugged on the red badge on his arm and started walking across the grass field studiously ignoring the approaching runners. He was confident that they all knew the penalty for crossing a Rooter, even a junior one.

The runners at the front of the pack saw the seventeen year old walk right across the track and recognizing him by his blonde hair and tall build, quickly drew to a halt, not wanting to draw his attention. The object of his rage was leaning against the lower bench of an empty audience stand while keeping his hand on a bloody abrasion on his knee.

‘Is there a problem student?’ Leo inquired.

The boy lifted his head and his heart nearly stopped in his chest. Looking down at him with pure disdain was a pair of cold gray eyes, eyes that he’d often seen scanning the students at New England Prep for weakness. Junior Rooter First Class Leo Grant was the most feared person at their school; even the Headmaster stepped lightly around him.

‘No Junior Rooter Grant,’ the boy replied, his voice quaking.

Leo nodded his head, ‘I see, then you wouldn’t mind getting on your feet.’

The boy was beginning to sweat and glanced down at his knee then back into the rooter’s face and found no mercy there. He struggled to his feet then tried to stand up straight. He lasted for almost a full ten seconds before falling back on his haunches, a soft cry escaping his lips.

‘I see,’ Leo said. He turned his head and called over two second year rooters who had been observing their senior with interest. They came running over and took in the boy shuddering on the ground.

‘Sir?’ the first of them spoke up.

‘I want you to take this student to the nurse’s office, and inform her that I’ll need her notes for my report,’ Leo ordered them.

What little color remained in the boy’s face completely melted away and took on the expression of a condemned man. The two second years each got an arm under him and lifted him bodily to his feet. They marched him away with his toes scraping against the dirt, helplessly dangling between them.

Leo looked around and noticed how careful everyone was to avoid his eye, including the adults who’d come out to cheer on their kids. He eventually spotted a woman in one of the stands being supported by a white haired man, mascara dripping down her face in a torrent of tears and guessed that they were the boy’s parents. From the cut of her clothes and the uneven mess that was her hair she must have been a cleaner or working some other dead end job, which was probably why the senior rooters hadn’t bothered with her. It was a wonder they’d even gotten their boy into a school like New England Prep. Leo felt it when the man’s gaze focused in on him and the heat of his anger couldn’t have been more obvious. He stiffly gave the man his back and walked away from the practice fields.

The sun was just beginning to set when Leo brought his bike up to their building’s third floor and turned the key to let himself in to their apartment. Something rushed out at him from under a couch, and quickly setting his bike aside he bent down to let his pet Scottish terrier Byron leap into his arms. Byron started licking at his face while Leo laughed and tried to hold him at a distance.

‘How’re you doing boy?’ Leo asked the little dog, rubbing his nose against its cold one. Leo usually set Byron loose when his parents were out so he could get some exercise, but knew the apartment could get pretty lonely. ‘Come on let’s get to my room.’

Leo carried Byron under his arm and into his bedroom kicking the door closed. Placing Byron down he locked the door and watched the dog run excitedly around the room. Leo was grateful for the soundproofed walls that were the only reason his parents hadn’t figured out he was keeping a dog in the apartment. He sat on his bed and smiled at Byron who stopped playing long enough to sit down and look at his master.

Byron panted softly and gave Leo a huge doggy grin that almost rid him of the sight of that injured boy staring at him like he was the devil. He might as well be because his report was going to get that boy expelled and once his weakness was noted and put on file it would be nothing but public schools for him for the rest of his life. After that would be community college and if he was lucky he might get a job driving cabs for a living.

‘Come here Byron,’ Leo coaxed. Byron came running and Leo lifted him up and fell back against his bed while suspending the black furred terrier in the air. Leo knew that those were the rules and there wasn’t anything he could do to change them, if he hadn’t cited the boy someone else would have. It was so damn frustrating and even more so when he considered that if his parents ever discovered Byron he’d probably face far worse.

Byron started barking and let his tongue hang out of his mouth, completely oblivious to the world his master lived in, but happy that he was home. Leo placed the dog beside him on the bed and laid his ear next to its chest and allowed the sound of its heart to drown out his thoughts.

A short story about insomnia by David Tombale: Demons

Demons

There are those rare moments at night, when you lie awake and somehow your whole life unfolds in front of you and there’s simply nowhere to hide. Scott had turned over on his side, then on his back until he realized that there’d be no sleep for him. It wasn’t the rain slapping against the windows or the cool air that blew in through an open shutter, it turned out to be the demons that had been plaguing him for a little over a month.

He rolled out of bed and using the flashlight on his phone he found the album he’d hidden among the books on his shelf. It was small and had a red cover and when he pulled it open a photo immediately fell to the floor. He got to his knees and picked it up and wasn’t surprised to find that it was a picture of the two of them on that same bed. In it he was bent over and wearing an old Metallica shirt and she had her arms around his neck with her auburn hair falling over his shoulder.

Scott sat at his desk and smiled down at the picture. He put it beside the album as he opened it in front of him. He flipped through the pages not really focusing on any of them but just scanning through the memories they’d made. In almost every picture he’d find her smiling back at him, usually in a pair of jeans that showed off her athletic body. There she was in a baseball cap, with long hair, with short hair, at the beach wearing a long skirt and kicking sand at the lens, or leaning back against a wooden horse on a carousel.

Scott put down the album and stared out the window at the sun shyly peeking over the horizon. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been sitting there, but the aches in his body hinted that it had been far longer than he would have liked to admit. The covers moved and a head poked out from under them. Her black hair was frizzy and looked like static had got to it and she quickly noticed him at his table. She met his eyes blearily, confusion all over her face.

‘Scott? How long have you been up?’ she asked.

‘Not long,’ he replied closing the album and placing his French Dictionary on top of it. He got up and eased into bed beside her.

She put her arm over him and smiled. ‘Good morning.’

‘Morning,’ he smiled back at her.

She moved closer and laid her head on his lap. Scott glanced down at the top of her head then up at the ceiling and hated himself for the pain he must be causing her. He hated that another woman still owned his heart and if she asked he’d have to tell her that April was all he could think about.

A short story about obsession by David Tombale: Stalker

Stalker

She had to be in her late twenties and Win observed that she’d stopped crying these past few days he’d been studying her. Watching her from across the street he could see the careful way she handled the clothes she’d put on the mannequin. The store was a high end one and marketed solely to women, which explained the elegant ladies who glided in and out with their designer hand bags balanced on their arms.

Win had considered going in but he hadn’t been able to come up with a proper explanation for why he’d be wandering in a women’s clothing store. His mother had raised him to be honest so creating a fake girlfriend to buy lingerie for was out of the question. The woman stopped suddenly and slowly turned around. He observed her pass her eyes over the crowds across the street but wasn’t worried, seated behind a bearded gentleman in one of the busiest cafes in the area ensured she’d never see him. Then why did her eyes linger in his direction, why did she nervously raise a hand to her strawberry blond hair? Without warning she stepped off the platform and disappeared inside the store.

Win got to his feet, surprised and uncertain. Should he leave? The woman appeared at the doorway to the store still looking across the street at the café. Win decided to fall back in his chair and play innocent. He picked up the newspaper he’d left in his lap and leafed through to a random page. She was crossing the street now and passed right below where he was sitting on the café’s balcony as she went inside. Win was sweating through his Burberry shirt but was trying to play cool as he touched his black framed glasses and pretended to read some story about a philandering local politician.

The woman came through the balcony doors and now that Win could see her up close, he could see that her nostrils were flaring and that she looked quite upset. She walked in his direction and Win couldn’t help putting the paper down as she came closer. She went right past him and up to the bearded man seated in front of Win.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded.

The bearded man raised his head to look at her and smiled in amusement, ‘Is there some crime in being here?’

‘You know that I work right over there, so how dare you act like you didn’t come here to harass me?’

‘Harass you? Dream on babe, I’m just here to get some coffee,’ he said pointing at the cup in front of him.

Win expected her tirade to start up again but was surprised when he saw tears in her eyes.

‘Can’t you just leave me alone? Please, let me just get on with my life,’ she pleaded.

The bearded man got to his feet and took up his cup. He took a small sip then poured it in her face. The woman flinched and drew back while everyone stared. The bearded man stepped in front of her, then leaned in close to her ear and whispered something that drained the color from her face. As he drew back and gave her a wide grin Win punched him between the eyes. The bearded man fell back toppling over the table he’d been occupying.

A dark bruise began to spread on his forehead as he stared in disbelief at Win. Win ignored him looking over the woman whose eyes were wide and confused.

‘Are you okay?’ Win asked her.

She numbly nodded her head still embarrassed and covered in coffee. Win reached in his shirt pocket and handed her a handkerchief. She resisted for a moment then took it, slowly wiping her face clean.

‘Come on,’ Win said taking her by the shoulders. ‘Let’s go get you cleaned up.’

Win waited outside the ladies’ toilets for her until she came out twenty minutes later. She smiled hesitantly and handed him back his handkerchief. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem,’ Win assured her. ‘So you ready to tell me what that was all about?’

‘Not really, let’s just say it’s complicated.’

Win tried out a smile and was relieved that he wasn’t standing in front of a mirror because it must have looked awful, but the woman didn’t seem to mind it all that much. In fact she smiled back at him.

‘I don’t mind complicated and you look like you could use someone to talk to.’

‘Alright,’ she said nodding her head, ‘but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

They found a table as far away from the balcony as they could get. Win had even suggested they find another place but she’d convinced him that she was fine with staying where they were. The woman, Camilla was her name told him about her relationship with Logan, the bearded man. How he’d seemed so sweet at first and then how he’d become possessive. How he’d taken to following her everywhere and Win had coughed delicately remembering how he’d come to be at the café but he’d let her continue. She’d confessed about how she’d stayed with him because she was new to the city and had had no one at all.

Somehow during all of it she got Win to tell her about his job as an illustrator, about how lonely moving out to the city had been for him. In the end that solitude was something they shared in common and pretty soon she was laughing so hard that little tears came out at stories of him getting lost on the subway and ending up at a cabaret. The entire time he could only marvel at the way her whole being radiated joy and beauty. 

A short story about a long distance relationship by David Tombale: The distance between

The distance between

Jerome had grown to love watching the sun come over the Boston skyline. Its mix of yellows and reds reminded him of autumn, and made him grateful for the view. His office was on the eight floor of their Boston branch and was suitably large, almost large enough to have space for his ego as Laura would say.

He hadn’t seen her in a while, almost a full month if he remembered right. The distance had been hard on her, hell it had been hard on him and he wondered how she filled the hours in-between. He could imagine, and the writhing images of her tangled in their bed sheets with another man had been enough to cause a cold sweat to break out all over his body.

He was thinking of calling her but it was around six and she’d probably still be at the hospital. He’d been so proud of her when she finally finished her residency and became Dr. Laura Roberts; he could picture her smiling in her white doctor’s coat causing the male patients’ heartbeats to spiral into insanity. She had that effect on the male gender and he was living proof of it.

Jerome loosened his tie and pulled off his blazer placing it on the shoulders of his chair. He couldn’t wait for the trial to end so that he could go back to his Laura, if she was still waiting. The trek back and forth between Boston and Chicago had only shown them how much they’d come to rely on each other, how a separation could wreak havoc on even the best relationships. Maybe he should call; she could be in the apartment right now wearing his Lakers’ jersey and nothing else desperate for the sound of his voice.

What would he do if he did and some other guy answered? Would it be over? Would that be how she told him that she’d grown too tired of missing him? That their busy schedules were no excuse for leaving her in the dark silence of an apartment they’d rented together. It was silly but he’d hoped Big Humphrey, the large brown furred teddy bear he’d bought her on Valentines’ might have helped ease the ache but teddy bear arms could never replace the warmth of real ones.

So maybe it was over or damn it should he call? He kept glancing down at the dark blue telephone on his desk agonizing over it. He needed to hear her voice but he’d probably end up sounding lonely over the phone. He couldn’t afford that. He sighed and looked back out the window as the sun slowly died and darkness began to rise like a wave over the city. Ring, ring, ring. The phone was vibrating and he reached out his hand and answered it.

‘Hello,’ he said softly.

‘Hey G,’ Laura said huskily, ‘are you busy?’

A funny science fiction story by David Tombale: Interruption

Interruption

Sam had decided that he was never leaving the house again, and the robot butler had fully agreed with him. Not that it had a lot of choice, but Sam wouldn’t let a little thing like a lack of free will deprive it of an opinion. That only made the pounding at his door that much more annoying.

‘What?!’ he yelled yanking the door open.

Standing there with his hand still poised to knock again was the landlord. He lowered his hand, his face flushing red with embarrassment before he drew himself up, ‘Mr. Weiss I do not allow robots in my building, not that I know why someone like you needs one.’

‘Someone like me?’ Sam quirked an eyebrow.

‘You know someone who clearly just sits on his butt all day. You probably get all your money from your parents or the government. Look at you still in your boxers.’

Sam quite openly reached under his white vest and scratched his stomach. ‘You’re boring me here Mr. Samuels, and there’s nothing in the lease that mentions robots.’

‘Forget the lease. I make the rules here you little punk,’ he shot back.

‘Goodbye Mr. Samuels,” Sam said slamming the door in the landlord’s face.

He was just sitting down in front of his computer, when the door startled rattling again under someone’s knuckles.

‘Unbelievable,’ he muttered under his breath.

He opened the door again, and this time found himself looking down the barrel of a sawed off shotgun. He raised his head and met a crazy pair of eyes; they were red with huge pupils like they couldn’t get enough light but the hallway outside was well lit.

‘Where… is.. it?’ the face behind those eyes stuttered.

‘Where..is..what?’

‘The merch….the drugs….the rock.’

Sam ran a hand through his hair and yawned, ‘Oh, you want the apartment down the hall, 305.’

The man holding the gun looked confused for a second, then nodded his head, ‘Th..anks.’

‘No problem,’ Sam said closing the door again.

He returned to his chair, and began loading a single player war game, when his door started vibrating again. He turned to look at it, then at his computer screen then back at the door before sighing and getting to his feet.

‘What?’ he asked, opening the door.

A middle aged man with a salt and pepper beard and wearing a blue suit waited outside. ‘Hey Sam get dressed we got a case. Apparently there’s some junkie running around offing dealers for their drugs.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, the boss wants us on it,’ the man answered trying to peek past Sam into his dark apartment.

‘Give me a second, I’ll be right out,’ Sam told him before closing the door. ‘Giles get my clothes out,’ he called out to his butler.

A science fiction short story about genetic manipulation by David Tombale: Unnatural selection

Unnatural Selection

Victor could see the streetlights from his window, their yellow glow picking out a white cat that ran out between two houses and quickly out of sight. He rolled over until his feet hit his carpeted floor and he could pull out the back pack he’d hidden under his bed. Grabbing his favorite blue sneakers from the wardrobe he put them on as silently as he could.

With bag in tow, he snuck out of his room into the hallway outside, listening carefully for any sounds. The house was quiet. Charles’ door was the second on the right and as he passed it Victor paused. Some nameless urge forced his hand to turn the knob. He opened the door as quietly as he could and looked in on his younger brother. He could hear him breathing softly in his sleep with a blanket laid over his head. Charles was his younger brother and had been perfect since the day he was born, as perfect as modern genetics could make a child. He stood at six foot two with a chiseled jaw and a three digit IQ. All of which explained why he’d become the star of the track team and student body president while his older brother’s successes on the chess team had barely drawn their parents’ attention.

Victor couldn’t even blame them for calling the Proctors to take away a failure like him. After all he could only manage to get in the way of their perfect son. Victor closed his brother’s door as quietly as he could and turned around. When he was in the living room, he grabbed a framed picture off the mantel and put it in his bag. It was the only thing he was taking with him aside from a change of clothes and some money he’d saved up from working a job at the mall. Grinding his teeth together, he slowly punched in the alarm code, each beep shaving off a year off his life and when it finally flashed from red to green Victor opened the front door and walked out. He picked Charles’ red mountain bike off the lawn. Standing by the house’s chain link fence he paused and took one last look at the house he’d grown up in. He turned his back on it and opened the gate wheeling the bike out into the street.

The roads were usually deserted around midnight so there was no one around to see the sixteen year old ride his bike all the way to Mountain View High School where the others were waiting. Victor saw Laurie’s eyes nearly bulge with terror behind the silver frames of her glasses when he rode up. She visibly relaxed when she recognized him and standing next to her was Chase, his freckles invisible in the darkness but Victor knew they were there. The last one was Roger who shared the same red hair as Laurie, which made sense since they were brother and sister and who probably had an inhaler somewhere in his clothes and that was the entire crew. Each one of them had a reason to be despised by their families and each one of them was in danger of being erased from existence by the all powerful Black Proctors.

The others had brought their own bikes and carried a bag with them.

“Is it time to go?” Victor asked.

“Yeah. The people from the shelter said they’d pick us up in the next town,” Chase said.

“Laurie, you okay?” Victor asked noting the way she was hugging herself.

“Are we really going to do this?” she asked.

“Well me and Victor are but if you two want to wait for the Proctors to come get you that’s fine by me,” Chase said.

“No way, we’re going,” Roger said looking at Laurie.

Laurie wouldn’t meet his eyes letting her hair fall in front of her face. Laurie had never been able to say no to her brother so Victor wasn’t surprised when she eventually nodded her head and got on her bike. Chase took off first and one by one they joined him. They had no idea where they’d end up but Victor knew, they all knew that they could never go home again.

A short story about time travel and death by David Tombale: Overtime

Overtime

Dallas, November 22 1963 James Mayer had just put Oswald against a corner to sleep off the effects of the drug while he opened his department issue pocket watch. The watch always reminded him of the pitted timepiece that used to sit on his grandparents’ mantelshelf in their house in Austria.  It was nearly 12.30 and Mayer peeked out the window and saw the presidential motorcade turn a corner on their way into Dealey Plaza.

Mayer took a deep breath before cradling Oswald’s rifle in his hands and sighting down the scope. He looked down at the man most of the world would idolize for generations and pulled the trigger. They didn’t start screaming at first though one or two heads began turning in confusion, then he fired the rifle again and again before pulling an old rag from his jacket pocket and wiping his prints off. He placed the gun in Oswald’s hands and considered that the lunatic should probably thank him. He never would have managed to hit the target with his poor skills.

Mayer was half a block from the scene of the shooting by the time they had Oswald in custody. He walked into a little bar on 42^nd and ignored the tense silence that practically screamed fear and panic. Everyone’s eyes were stuck to the tv which probably explained why the bartender didn’t hassle him about reaching behind the bar and grabbing a mug which he promptly filled with one of the beers on tap. Mayer dropped a ten dollar bill on the counter and found himself a booth in the back.

An alert came through on his mini tablet congratulating him on his recent success. A woman suddenly cried out as they showed Kennedy being pulled out of an ambulance, she turned to what might have been her husband or a boyfriend. He was a no nonsense looking guy with stubble on his jaw and shovel size hands but when he took the woman in his arms Mayer observed fat tears fall down his cheeks.

They weren’t the only ones who gave in to their emotions, soon the whole bar began a chorus of sobs and gasps and Mayer could imagine that the whole nation was already joining them in their grief. That grief would soon become a long period of mourning when the president finally died.

Another alert came through to his tablet as Mayer sipped his beer. They wanted him to go to Memphis, April 4^th 1968. Ahhh, the King assassination. Another amateur with bad hand eye coordination was waiting to be replaced with a competent shooter. Mayer considered putting in for overtime, he hadn’t seen the 23^rd century in two months and gallivanting from one time period to another hadn’t left him with a lot of time to check on his cat.

He grumbled a little under his breath before upending his mug and finishing off his beer. He stood up and moved towards the exit as invisible as a ghost, everyone still caught up by the events on the screen. The shooting of the president was being played on a loop as if somehow by doing that they could rewind everything and change what had happened. Mayer could understand the feeling, when his dad died he’d often dreamt of breaking regulations and maybe going back to the day of his car accident. It had been his mom who’d helped him realize that some things just happened and death wasn’t something you could avoid.

A short story about grief and revenge: Ghosts

Ghosts

The house hadn’t been maintained in a long time, its floors were covered with dust and the wood beneath had warped with time. Lyle had been happy in this house for three long years and had raised two little boys with his wife Lynda; even now looking at a framed picture of them he could still remember what that felt like. He’d made space by the house’s fireplace and left his gun right by his feet while he gazed around at the torn curtains and the couch hanging open like an empty mouth, its cushions missing and rusty springs poking through.

It had been so beautiful once. There’d been a table right by the entrance where they’d placed a bowl that was always filled with little mints for their guests and there’d been so many guests. Not for Lyle, no he was the more introverted of the two, no they always came for his fair haired Lynda who could put together a three course meal in seconds. Lyle had always been a terrible cook and his dear wife had often shoved him out of the kitchen because he was always getting underfoot.

It was here that he could still remember her like that, not in the hospital with those jagged scars on her wrists. She’d fallen apart so quickly after the boys…his beautiful wife had morphed into a shadow that floated about in a permanent daze that no therapy had ever managed to penetrate.

Lyle put their picture down and picked up the gun. Getting to his feet and ignoring the dust that clung to his khaki pants he approached the man he’d tied to a chair. Sweat had plastered the man’s greasy black hair to his head and his eyes had dark circles under them. He weakly raised his head and gave Lyle a look that promised retribution for the state he was in.

“Here we both are where it all started. I wonder when you broke into our house that night if you ever considered that things might turn out this way?” Lyle said.

He reached out and removed the strip of clothing he’d gagged the man with.

“You should have known I’d never let a punk like you put me in jail,” the man spat out.

“You’re a scumbag. Sooner or later someone was going to prosecute you for your crimes but you broke into my house and killed my..” Lyle choked on the words.

“I wasn’t going to let you put me in jail,” the man repeated.

“Well congratulations, you’re not in jail,” Lyle said raising the gun.

There was a loud bang that woke the neighbors on either side of that tragic house. The first to reach for their phone was Mrs. Carla Mitchell who’d had a lot of trouble sleeping lately ever since her husband passed away. Her white cat meowed in protest as she shifted it reaching for the phone she kept by the bedside before dialing 911.

Lyle hobbled back to the fireplace picking up the gold framed picture of his family. They’d taken it on their last vacation down to Florida to visit Lyle’s folks. They’d been on the beach and James had worn the green trunks he’d loved while Sean had been hugging his parents’ little terrier. There standing in the back in a green shirt with blue trunks was Lynda laughing and sticking her tongue out at the camera.

How quickly things had changed and now there was nothing left for Lyle. No wife or kids, just a house full of objects and ghosts that would forever weigh him down. Another loud bang startled Mrs. Mitchell causing her to draw the covers over her head as she pleaded with the 911 operator to send help quickly. 

A science fiction short story about fate by David Tombale: The System

The System

SK5113 or John Block was only a minute old when he realized he wasn’t like all the other officer worker models. He wasn’t an alcoholic, he wasn’t constantly depressed or prone to random acts of petty theft, in fact he was downright the opposite of what the programmers had been going for. Looking down at the time piece on his wrist which was actually a decade older than him he stood up from his little cubicle carefully keeping a smile off his face.

With briefcase in tow he exited one of the many office buildings on their block keeping his eyes off the burnt sky in case today of all days it actually managed to ruin his mood. It was a rather long walk to the subway and the crowds of RX4s and NT6s always forced him to move at a snail’s pace. He wasn’t concerned really, watching the sharply dressed lawyer models and the teenage models with their torn jeans and pierced ears walking the streets was meant to be soothing; it meant the system was still operating smoothly.

In the subterranean expanse of the subway while holo ads for colognes and junk food jumped off the screens on the walls John found himself looking at his watch again as he waited for the six o’clock train. Going back to the watch was a habit he’d formed a month after he’d been removed from his pod and was actually useless since his internal clock always kept him well apprised of the time. No one had complained of course, it all fit the programming even if John was unusually aware of the exact parameters of his code.

While he stood there surrounded by the odd silence that usually accumulated around their kind whenever they left whatever jobs they’d been created for he spotted a female model standing perilously close to the edge of the platform. The female had begun to lean back and forth and John quickly took note of her ring less hands and with his superior eyesight spotted a single grey hair on her head. She must have been approaching the mandatory 30 year limit and had probably failed to find a life partner necessary to building a family unit.

Models like that were programmed to do only one thing when they failed. John could already hear the train coming and could spot its bright lights coming down the tunnel. He began pushing through the crowd drawing confused stares from the others unused to this sort of behavior especially from an SK5; he wasn’t even a violent WG40 with their leather jackets and cowboy boots.

As the train pulled in the female kicked off from the platform with her eyes closed only to be yanked back out of its path. She whirled around in anger to confront an SK5 and had to stop when she saw the concern in its eyes. It appeared like the rest of the SK5s; there was the blond hair and slim build but there was something odd in its blue eyes that threw her off balance.

“What’re you doing?” John breathlessly asked her.

“I’m completing my programming,” she replied.

John reached out his hand and without any warning plucked out the single grey hair showing it to her, “Because of this?”

“Of course, I have no family unit therefore I must immediately terminate my existence,” she said.

John smiled and she could only marvel at what was a clear violation of his programming. SK5’s never smiled. As colorless cogs that drove the economy such a thing was not to be tolerated.

“It’s just a grey hair. If you like I can buy you some hair dye in case another ever crops up,” he told her.

She stood there with her mouth open and sensing she’d received as many shocks as she could tolerate in one day John took her by the arm and pulled her on the train. They were soon squeezed against a window as the train pulled out of the station. The female could only stare at the strange SK5 and glanced at the hand he placed on her cheek. Someone bumped into John from behind pushing them closer together and without hesitation he reached out and took a hold of her waist.

“I’m John by the way,” he finally said before they passed into the tunnel plunging the entire car into darkness.

 

A short story about freedom and the open road by David Tombale: The Great Escape

The Great Escape

The bar smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke and was floating in some sort of haze in front of Craig Marshall’s eyes. High off beer and a pack of peanuts he’d kept by his side the whole night he’d somehow forgotten to cry. For a sixth straight night Margie had refused his calls and now there she was standing next to Freddie by the pool tables.

Craig looked down at the scars on his knuckles and tried to breathe deeply but not too deeply through the stitches and bandages that were keeping his chest together. Walden stood by the door to the back room trying to signal him. He probably wanted to fleece Craig out of the rest of his money in their weekly card game.

Craig waved him off as he looked at what was now his ex-girlfriend, looking oh so good in a pair of tight jeans that showed off her strong legs. She ran a hand through her thick black hair while constantly caressing Freddie’s neck. To think he’d meant to surprise her that night. Looked like there was no point to that now.

Craig put down a bunch of bills and coins to pay for his beer and pushed back from the counter. He was glad he’d stuck to two beers; he wasn’t in the mood to call a taxi tonight not that he knew where he’d direct it to. Ignoring his former girlfriend who glared in his direction while hanging off his former best friend he winded through the crowd until he could push open the exit door.

Outside in the snow he found the owner’s Rottweiler chained to the front steps. The dog raised its head and met his eyes. Running all over its fur were cuts and scrapes some of which looked new. Craig had heard the owner ran some kind of underground fight ring for dogs. Poor mutt looked like it had it worse than him. Spurred on by the beer Craig took hold of the dog’s chain and planting his foot against the wall pulled until he tore the wooden railing on the stairs. The chain fell to the snow and the dog was free.

“Enjoy you freedom you damn mutt,” Craig said.

He walked over to his Chevy but checked the trunk before he jumped in. Amidst the spare wheel and the jack there sat a black duffel bag. Craig opened it up and inside he found stacks of bills. Counting quickly he estimated it came to 250 large. He knew Wiley would bring him his cut from the jewellery heist. Now he could finally get out of this town.

Craig got behind the wheel but just as he was about to pull out he heard a low whine coming from below his window. Rolling it down he saw the Rottweiler looking plaintively at him. Craig shook his head. The dog had to be out of its mind. It whined again and gave him a long slow look.

Craig shook his head again and opened the back door.

“Well what are you waiting for? Jump in already.”

The dog got its paws on the seat and jumped up into the back seat.

“Stupid mutt,” Craig said, closing the door.

He revved the Chevy then pulled out of the parking lot. Joining the few cars that were on the road at midnight he decided it was as good a time as any to leave. He’d buy whatever clothes he needed on the way, and maybe some dog food.

“Hey mutt, I hear Alaska is nice this time of year, what do you think?”

The dog looked at him then barked once.

“Yeah that’s what I thought.”

A science fiction story about solitude by David Tombale: The Intrepid

The Intrepid

The vastness of space had slowly worked its dark magic on Kevin’s brain, filling it with permanent shadows that the bright lights of the spaceship could never completely dispel. It was his fifth year standing at the helm of the Intrepid and there were as many as another eight left before he could awaken another crew member to take over his shift. Not that he’d let them. There was no way he’d trust his fate to a bunch of clones.

Suffice it to say the many years of solitude Kevin had endured with only the ship’s AI for company had left him a little paranoid. Another opinion might be that he’d been driven completely insane by the lack of conversation with another breathing human.

Kevin took one of the lifts down to the cryo chambers. It was a Thursday by his count and this was when he usually went down to check on the others and read to the crew member in POD 00187. The doors opened for him letting him into a huge room covered by clouds of cold air that tried to suck the warmth out of his insulated uniform. He walked from pod to pod checking their diagnostics and the status of their inhabitants.

He went through five rows of them before finally stopping by her pod. She looked like Ophelia from the book, suspended there in the cushioned bed of the plastic pod, her thick brown hair falling around her. Kevin placed his hand on the transparent plastic lid that protected her and was grateful for the black glove he’d chosen to wear. Otherwise his skin might have gotten stuck to the cold surface.

He showed her his gift, it was Alice in Wonderland this time, they’d read it four times but he was certain that it was a favorite of hers. He sat in front of her pod and started reading in a loud voice. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know her name or that she might be a clone like the rest of them. He knew she was special and that they were meant to be so he told her all about Alice again, Alice and the white rabbit and when he finally stood up he was so sure that she looked happier.

Kevin finished his inspection then returned to the helm. He had just sat down in front of the flight controls when she walked out of the shadows.

“Kevin?” she said softly.

Kevin looked up at her and even now was astonished at how closely he’d gotten her to resemble the woman in the pod. The android walked further into the room, the vented air blowing through the flimsy night gown she was wearing. The sound of her heels was loud in the silence of the pressurized room.

“Did you go to see her?” the android asked.

“Yes,” Kevin replied turning his attention back to the navigational charts.

She reached out and placed her arms on his shoulders. Kevin shook her off and glared.

“That’s enough Celeste. I’m very busy right now,” he said firmly.

“Oh but you weren’t too busy to visit her? To read to her? Why don’t you ever read to me?” she complained.

He’d made a mistake by tampering with her neural chip; androids weren’t meant to be so emotional. “You’re a robot Celeste; you don’t need me to read to you.” The instrument panel in front of him began to flash with green lights and when he hit a button an asteroid field jumped up on the screen.

“Well maybe you’ll read to me when she’s gone?” Celeste continued.

“What are you talking about now?” he asked her, annoyed by their whole conversation.

“I’m talking about opening the airlock in the cryo chamber and ejecting all those clones you hate out into space, including her.”

“What?” Kevin’s head spun around. He got to his feet, “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Celeste smirked.

“God, are you insane?” he yelled running for the lifts.

When the lift carried him to the lower decks he raced towards the doors to the cryo chamber but it was too late. She’d left the airlock doors open and he couldn’t get in to the now vacant chamber. He stared with horror at the area where 83 souls had once rested.

“I told you she’s gone,” Celeste said happily.

Kevin turned to look at her and somewhere at the back of his mind resided the hope that he could use the ship to get them all back on board but then he remembered the asteroids and he knew he’d never make it in time. She’d killed them or rather he’d killed them. There was no way they’d ever convict a robot for this. It was all over.

A short story about love and regret by David Tombale: Among the dust

Among the dust

The smell of dust sat around the apartment, filling the little gaps between the furniture and the floors, the picture frames and the vase where a bunch of dead roses sat. Patrick looked around the room and could only see her ghost putting up their olive green curtains or humming a little song to herself while she chopped onions by their kitchen counter.

He was lying on the floor trying to find the strength to get up but without her there seemed no point. In one hand he held a sneaker of hers he’d found at the back of their closet. It still smelled like her. Her letters were arrayed around him a little like a chalk outline around a body. She’d written such beautiful letters; not like other people did, professing love and regurgitating clichés, no she knew how to tell a story, how to capture your imagination with her passion.

Patrick only wished he’d shared her gift, maybe then he might have been able to write what was in his heart. Something like how her kiss had been the one thing he went to sleep dreaming about and was the first thing he wanted to wake up to. God how she’d laughed and fought him off complaining about his morning breath. They’d wrestle playfully until he pinned her down and kissed her all over her face lastly capturing her lips with his. She’d always lean in pressing her body against his and he’d want her all over again.

Somewhere down the hall he could hear the phone ringing. Patrick reluctantly lifted his arm and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to two, twenty minutes until the wedding. Somebody started pounding on the door and he could hear voices shouting his name but all he wanted to do was lie there with the dust. Maybe they’d find his body years from now, with the decayed remains of her letters and the rags of his black suit covering his bones.

He heard the door open and the click of heels on the wooden floors. Someone stopped by his side and sat down. When he looked up he could only see her white dress before she tore her veil from her head. She lay by his side and met his eyes. She still looked exactly the same as she had on the day he left. The same long black hair and the same intelligent blue eyes that he’d loved so much. She laid her hand on Patrick’s cheek and cried.

“Why didn’t you come?” she asked him.

“Why didn’t you wait?” he whispered.

“I did. I waited three long years for you to come back to me,” she said.

“I know. I’m sorry. It took me a long time to figure out what I wanted,” Patrick said.

“And have you? Do you know what you want now?” she asked.

He moved closer to her until their foreheads met. “I want world peace, an end to starvation, the Cubs to win the World Series and that you never marry anyone but me.”

She smiled through her tears. “Is that all? So are you proposing?”

Patrick kissed her tasting her tears on her lips and felt his heart swell in his chest. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. Rebecca Cousins will you marry me?”

“Hmmm,” she seemed to think about it, “maybe,” she said, kissing him once, twice then grabbing him like she’d never let go and kissing him with all the strength she had.

A science fiction story about war by David Tombale: Invasion

Invasion

There was still a sun in the sky when Doyle awoke. For some reason he’d imagined there wouldn’t be, not after last night. Not after those damn aliens had dropped bombs on their heads. He’d hidden in his foxhole listening to their boys fly past in their fighter jets while all around him explosions had torn up the hill they’d claimed just a day ago.

Doyle struggled out of his single man tent and saw a bunch of the boys sitting by a fire cooking up something so rancid that he was sure everyone in camp had already had a whiff.  Nunez looked up from the pan and raised his arm in greeting. Doyle waved back before walking off in the direction of the medical tents.

His best friend Mark Roberts had been hit by one of the Monoterrans’ plasma shells and he’d had a bad feeling all night about Mark’s wounds. As he moved through the camp he noted that there were a lot more empty tents than there’d been when they’d started advancing through Europe. Hell the living didn’t look much better, with plenty of soldiers carrying bandages around their heads and slings dangling from their slumped shoulders. It wasn’t supposed to have turned out like this, with half the regular army dead and farm boys like Doyle and Mark and these other poor souls left to pick up the slack. The recruiter in Doyle’s hometown had told him they were beating back the invaders.

When he finally found the medical tents Doyle could only think he’d been lied to. The screaming he heard didn’t sound like victory. No one should ever have to scream like that, like they were going to tear their throats apart and then there was the amount of activity he could see around the tents! Figures draped in white aprons and masks ran from one to the other blood covering them from head to toe.

Doyle had to push past one of these frantic figures just to get inside a tent. When he did he just stood there shocked at the chaos that confronted him. There were countless men and women jammed into that tiny tent, their narrow cots barely able to support their writhing bodies. One of the veiled figures turned around and grabbed him with a bloody mitt. They pulled down their mask and screamed into his face.

It took Doyle several seconds to make out her words. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?” she yelled.

“I..I’m looking for Private Mark Roberts,” Doyle mumbled.

She didn’t waste a second and roughly pulled him to the back of the tent. She finally stopped beside a cot with a sheet pulled over what could only be a body. She turned to him with an impatient look on her face that vanished once she saw his expression.

He’d known; in his heart he’d known when the medics carried Mark from their foxhole that there was no saving him. The plasma fires had leaped hungrily at Mark quickly engulfing his entire body before their shocked unit had managed to snuff them out. Doyle reached out a shaking hand and grabbed a corner of the sheet. The nurse or maybe she was a doctor gently put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Don’t. You don’t want to see him like that,” she said softly.

“I do. He was my friend,” Doyle said.

She nodded her head and stood aside. Doyle pulled the sheet back to uncover Mark’s burnt body. Half his face was disfigured and the burns continued down to his chest. Looking at him Doyle could still remember how excited he’d been when they joined up. Mark had been such a natural during basic training, so eager to be a hero and protect his country. Doyle could feel the tears run down his cheeks and they just wouldn’t stop. The woman who’d decided to stay with him placed her hand on his shoulder.

While they stood there a siren began ringing somewhere in the camp. They both looked at each other in alarm. The woman promptly took off running, probably to prepare more sheets or cots for the boys who’d soon have them busier than they already were. Doyle studied Mark’s face and couldn’t help observing how peaceful he appeared even with all the damage to his body.

Who knows maybe that meant something? What Doyle did know for certain was that the war was calling.

“I’ll see you soon buddy,” Doyle said draping the sheet over his friend’s head.